


Who's That Girl

by Bethofbells



Category: The Mindy Project
Genre: Crack Fic, F/M, but i like it, jetsy, seriously this is not serious, very light bdsm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2822993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bethofbells/pseuds/Bethofbells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of forever being the little sister, the ignored piece of furniture, the sweet little girl, Betsy Putch steps into a role it seems she's always been waiting for. Crack fic, sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a jetsy fic, eventually. I don't know how long it'll take to get there, and this is sort of my "break" fic when I get stuck writing something else. It's the result of a possibly inappropriate conversation with someone via text, a borderline crack fic. Thanks for reading, and anyone please feel free to comment on it. I'd love to hear what you think.**

Betsy Putch was a good girl. She prayed before every meal, brushed her teeth after, and never left the dishes in the sink. Her family often described her as ‘The Golden Child,’ her father chuckling fondly whenever anyone asked about sweet little Bets. He just knew his little girl was making the world a better place.

The first time she ever kissed a boy her lips had been closed, the seam unyielding as Jimmy Anderson’s tongue fought to breach the barrier. The moment his hand had swept up under her sweater had been the end of a long and incredibly boring courtship.

She’d been the stereotypical small town girl when she’d moved to the city, eyes wide with wonder at the bright lights and loud noises. She’d lived in a little bubble at first, walking the short distance between her rented bedroom and Shulman and Associates, the only detour being the coffee shop two blocks over.

The office itself had been a revelation to her, watching all manner of women traipsing in and out, some attended by their adoring husbands or boyfriends (even a few with their wives) others proudly alone. Young and old, every race and creed eventually crossed the threshold of Shulman and Associates.

Her interaction with men back in her hometown had been relegated to church picnics and brief conversations standing in line at the pharmacy, but here in New York it was different. The men who approached her here didn’t know her parents, or care that she attended church three times a week (Wednesday and twice on Sunday). They had easy smiles to cast in her direction, toothy grins that were filled with the promise of something more than a quiet handholding session while walking in the park.

And much to Betsy’s surprise (and quite frankly much to her consternation as well) the new attention sparked something strange within her, a little heat pooling in the pit of her stomach as a blush crept up her neck. She never knew what to say, ducking her head down, a curtain of her hair falling forward to hide her face.

One man in particular seemed to have the power to set the strange feeling into motion with more frequency than anyone else. It was unfortunate, because she was fairly certain that this particular person was only vaguely aware of her presence. Sometimes she felt like a rather boring piece of furniture when they were in the same room, her tongue getting tied as his eyes passed over her, however briefly.

The day her life changed actually started like any other day, Dr. Jeremy Reed stopping by her desk to pick up his mail, fingers brushing lightly against her own as he collected the the correspondence. Suddenly she knew exactly what the tingling sensation zipping through her meant, and she knew with stunning clarity what she wanted to do about it too. The thought sent a flaming blush across her face, reddening the skin all the way to her hairline.

Of course, Dr. Reed didn’t notice the shift in atmosphere, he couldn’t hear the keening noise of Betsy’s inner voice. He merely tapped his mail on the desk, thanking her in the phony “professional” voice he affected when talking to patients, utterly unaware of the longing coursing through Betsy’s delicate frame.

And that was it, the unintentional brush off that made her want to go home and sob into her pillow. It took her less than five minutes to collect her belongings and head out the door, sending Dr. Lahiri a quick text faking an unexpected illness. That was one thing about working in a gynecology clinic. Expectant mothers did not want a sickly receptionist taking down their insurance information.

Milling along the sidewalk, humanity slipping around her as if she were invisible. Normally the feeling grounded her, a reminder that there were much larger things to worry about than her trivial insecurities, but today it only served to point out how little she mattered. Was this really her life? What she’d seemed content to accept before, now looked like such a lonely existence.

The move to the big city was supposed to have been the catalyst that changed her life, the moment everyone she knew stopped viewing her as a little girl and started viewing her as a woman, but she’d just shifted into another family, full of the same big personalities and condescending attitudes. Sure, they were protective, and loving a lot of the time, but they still considered her a child.

She blinked, staring at her reflection in the window in front of her. She’d been standing here, stock still, for God knew how long, looking at the morose expression pulling down at her mouth. It was only when she blinked out of her trance that she noticed exactly what kind of shop she was standing in front of.

Her mouth dropped open, curiosity and revulsion seesawing inside of her as she stared at the display. It was a sex shop, all manner of toys and gadgets laid out elegantly on a field of silk, lit by gently glowing lights recessed into the counter. She was pulled to it, her forehead bumping up against the glass as she moved closer, palms up.

She only had the vaguest ideas about the delicate merchandise spread before her curious gaze, and was concentrating so hard on trying to figure out the use and purpose of each item, that she didn’t hear the bell tinkle as the door opened.

“See anything you like?”

The woman’s voice was like velvet wrapped steel, the faintest hint of smoke riding along the edges of the words. Betsy jumped back from the window as if it were red hot, an immensely guilty look across her face. “Uh.. no… I don’t… um…”

She turned, taking a few steps in the opposite direction, every cell in her body sending an involuntary command to run to her brain, but something stopped her. A little voice in her head, whispering ‘you’re invisible’ as she retreated, hooked it’s claws into her.

Turning back, she took a moment to really look at the elegantly dressed woman. Wrapped in black head to toe, pale skin and ice blonde hair accented by ruby red lips. She cast a stunningly beautiful image. But it wasn’t her beauty that drew Betsy along, pulling her like a magnet. It was the woman’s presence, the power she exuded from every pore.

She was everything Betsy wanted to be in her darkest moments, and she found herself taking tentative steps toward the woman, watching her red lips curl up into a pleased smile. “I’m Lady Analise. Come, dear, let’s chat.”

Her words were hypnotic, an unplaceable eastern european accent just under the raspy tone of her voice. Betsy’s eyelids drooped down low as the woman gently tugged her into the shop.

It wasn’t a sex toy shop exactly, Betsy had been wrong. No one could have blamed her for assuming such a thing, her inexperienced eye immediately equating the black lacy lingerie and shiny instruments in the window with the few lurid fantasies she’d had.

The further she was dragged into the dim space, the more it began to dawn on her that these things were not the paraphernalia she’d seen at the few bridal showers she’d been to. Her cousin Alice certainly hadn’t gotten any latex body suits in the pastel packages she’d ripped into the days before her wedding, and Betsy couldn’t even begin to understand the purpose of the small silver knobs lined up in ascending sizes.

Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated completely as she strained to see the things around her. She shivered, the finely manicured point of Lady Analise’s index finger trailing up the back of her neck.

“I’ll ask again. See anything you like? Anything that speaks to you on a… primal level?”

Betsy shook her head in denial, clamping her lips shut against the possible word vomit creeping up.

“Don’t fight it, darling. Go with the flow. Surely there’s a reason you ended up here.”

There was something that caught her eye, something recognizable from her childhood. It struck her as strange that it was nestled in between the various chains and braided whips on the farthest table. She took a tentative step toward it, hand outstretched.

The braided handle felt good against her palm, the genuine leather like butter underneath her thumb as she picked it up off the table. Flexing her grip, she hefted it. It was well balanced, the familiar weight triggering the instinct to flick her wrist.

A loud smack brought her out of her reverie, the leather tongue of the riding crop slapping down on the counter violently. She turned to Lady Analise, lips parted, an unspoken question dying on her vocal chords.

“Are you really so innocent?”

Betsy’s eyebrows furrowed, glancing back and forth between the crop and her companion. “I don’t…”

The crop left her hands, Lady Analise plucking it from Betsy’s loose grasp. In the flash of an eye one end of the crop went flying through the air, slapping with a stinging ferocity against the receptionist’s cheek.

Betsy’s hand flew to the faint mark, eyes wide with shock and more than a little anger. “How dare you?”

Understanding lit in the older woman’s eyes. “Ah, I see. I’m afraid I’ve misunderstood you my dear.”

The smoked honey sound soothed Betsy, wicking away the outrage she’d been flooded with, replacing it was a low frequency desire to step in closer. “You did?”

Lady Analise shut her eyes, tilting her head to the side as she concentrated. “Little Miss Putch, so tired of being powerless, so tired of being ignored. If only they knew the fire that ran through your veins, how powerful you once felt astride a majestic beast, riding crop flying through the air as you urged it on. When’s the last time you felt that power, Betsy?”

“How did you…?”

“It’s really not important.”

Lady Analise pressed the instrument back into Betsy’s hands. “Consider it a gift my dear, and I implore you, come back here again, after business hours, so you can learn to find that power again.”

Betsy nodded, swallowing a lump of fear, finding a note of anticipation in it. “I will.”


	2. Chapter 2

Betsy was a distracted mess the rest of the day, sitting at her desk as the world moved around her. More than once she let the phone ring until Beverly had stomped angrily over to answer it, grouchily asking, "Do you even work here, princess?"

She couldn't stop thinking about the leather riding crop tucked into her oversized bag. Jeremy had noticed the angry red patch of skin on her cheek when she'd ducked back into the office, wondering aloud at it's source.

"I, uh… a bird flew into my face."

"Didn't Mindy say you were sick?"

"Not anymore."

"Oh."

The interaction had been more than she'd ever had with him before, and yet she couldn't focus on it, barely noticing the way his eyes had lingered on her as she'd turned away, concern coloring his features.

By the time five p.m. rolled around Betsy had very nearly convinced herself that she should toss the riding crop in the nearest dumpster on her way home, forget all about Lady Analise and the alluring little shop.

Shouldering her bag she stepped out onto the street, one hand at her throat fingering the tiny golden cross nestled there. This certainly was a dilemma, but no matter how she thought about it there didn't seem to be any real reason not to go back. She had absolutely nothing to lose, and a part of her was certain she had everything to gain.

So, when she finally tugged at the wrought iron handle and met with the resistance of a locked door, it was gut wrenching disappointment that flooded her, shoulders slumping down as she turned away.

"Miss Putch, nice to see you again."

As if by magic the clipped accent floated through the air, and Betsy whirled around in surprise. Lady Analise stood in the doorway once again, a striking figure in black, leather riding boots all the way up to her knees, a long sleeved turtleneck clinging to her angular figure. Her hair was different this time, a fiery shade of red cut into a severe bob.

Betsy was at her side in a matter of seconds, heeling like an obedient dog instinctively, waiting with baited breath for her next instructions. Lady Analise patted her gently on the cheek, running the tips of her glove clad fingers against the faded mark. "You came. Good girl."

Betsy nodded, her hands dipping down in her bag, reaching for the gift.

"No, no, my dear, that won't be necessary. Not today." She gently took Betsy by the shoulders, guiding her back into the shop. "Today we talk."

The first thing that struck Betsy when she regained her senses was how different the place seemed. It was larger than before, the dark hardwood floors glowing under the light flickering in the decorative wall sconces. There were heavy curtains drawn over the windows, blocking the view from passersby. Surely it was an illusion, but it seemed like the outside world had disappeared, even the ever present sounds of the city completely faded away as Analise drew Betsy along.

There was a heavy table in the middle of the shop, display tables cleared away, merchandise tucked back into drawers. Lady Analise pulled out one of the matching chairs, thick legs scraping against the floor. "Sit."

Betsy followed the command, wondering at the inflection the woman was able to use. Somehow nearly everything that passed from her own mouth ended up sounding like a question, a meekness that had been trained into her from childhood. She so desperately wanted to learn how to command such a tone.

The table was set with a meal, two wine glasses filled with a deep red wine, plates with carefully arranged morsels sitting on each side of the table. Betsy's companion took the opposite chair, glancing at her over the rim of her wine glass. "What do you see before you?"

Betsy swallowed. "Um.. food and… wine?"

Lady Analise nodded, her blunt bob swinging with the motion. "Yes, what does food mean to you?"

Betsy swallowed, afraid that she was going to say the wrong thing, her interrogator's voice clearly expecting a specific answer. "The absence of hunger?"

"What a pedestrian answer, and yet, I think that's how you view everything in your life." A gloved hand waved toward Betsy's plate, encouraging her to pick up the fork and dig in. "Food is sustenance, your job pays the bills, you have friends so you're not lonely, everything has a base purpose."

Betsy felt a little defensive, but bit her tongue, focusing instead on the strange food before her. There was no silverware, the little creations on the plate looked like finger food, so she plucked one up and popped it into her mouth, feeling suddenly brave.

It wasn't what she expected, a heat searing the tip of her tongue the faint hint of chocolate underneath the warmth. She chewed it, concentrating on not making a face. If her mother had taught her anything, it was to never show how much you disliked someone's cooking.

"Make a face, darling. It's ok if you don't like it."

"What? No, it's… interesting.. I like it." Betsy scrunched her nose, staring longingly at the wine, anything to wash the taste from her mouth.

"You don't have to like it, just experience it. A fried oyster with chilli sauce and ground cocoa nibs, it's a surprising flavor combination to be sure." She smiled at Betsy, swirling the wine around in her own glass before downing the last of it.

Betsy took it as a sign and reached for her own glass, the red wine splashing against her tongue yet another taste she wasn't that familiar with. She smiled. "Well, you're right. I didn't like it."

"Food is more than nourishment, Miss Putch. It's an experience to be savored by every sense. Did you smell the cocoa as it wafted into your sinuses, feel the heat of capsaicin coating the roof of your mouth? Did you hear the crunch of the perfectly fried batter?"

Betsy nodded, setting the suddenly empty wine glass down. She blinked. Had she drank the entire glass? It hardly seemed possible. Her eyes shifted to her plate, clean now, missing the the other two appetizers she'd been served.

Her mouth fell open, looking back to Lady Analise in surprise. The woman was smiling at her in a strange way, affection tinging the gaze she cast in Betsy's direction. She produced a thin box from nowhere, setting it on the table between them. It reminded Betsy of the gift boxes her mother used for her christmas sweaters she gave everyone in the family.

"Another gift?"

Lady Analise shook her head, scooting the box across the table. "It's an assignment, a small one to ease you into the role you'll be taking."

Betsy's eyes widened as she reached for the box, slipping one fingernail underneath the tiny piece of tape holding the lid down. She stared down at the revealing lingerie, heat suffusing the skin over her entire body. Lady Analise's voice cut through the blood rushing in her ears.

"Wear this tomorrow, underneath one of your cute little a-line skirts, one of those demure little cardigans with kittens frolicking on the front. Feel the silk slipping against your skin as you file and answer telephones. Know what's clinging to your body as you make idle chit chat."

It was like nothing she'd ever seen before, sheer material slipping against her fingers accented with the tiniest scraps of lace, hooks and straps intimidating her. She pushed it away. "No… I couldn't. I've never…" She swallowed.

Lady Analise's shoulders tensed as she shoved the box across the table, the formerly soft tone of her voice hardening into an undeniable edge. "No one will make you do what you don't want to do, Betsy, but do you really want to walk out that door, having gained nothing? This part of you already exists, you should at least acknowledge it. This way, it's just for you."

Betsy was taken aback, and not just by the woman's unyielding tone, but by the absolute truth that rang in her words. Longing had zipped through her when she'd seen the lingerie, memories from adolescence, her mother pushing her hurriedly past Victoria's Secret, muttering things about wanton women. She'd never gone back.

The muscle in her jaw ticked, teeth clenching as she scooped up the box, holding it to her chest. "Fine, but not the kitten sweater. Mittens is more of a plain white cotton kind of girl."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: And Betsy's adventure continues. I'd be happy to hear from anyone who's reading this. As someone who never really had any inclination to write her, I'd like to know what ppl think of my characterization.**

Betsy could have shoved the garment box under her bed, nestled it amongst the out of style shoes and balled up stockings and never spared it another thought. She had no obligation to Lady Analise. As a matter of fact she literally never had to see the woman again if she so chose.

This last thought was a large component of the lecture she gave herself while she walked home. Sure, she clutched the box to her chest like a treasure, afraid that some stranger would pry it from her if she eased her grip, but she didn't want it.

She got all the way to the door of her apartment, this lie circling in her brain, as she walked determinedly into her tiny bedroom. Wedging herself in the foot wide gap between her bed and the wall, she bent down to tuck the box away, but couldn't do it.

The box lid flew off, her fingers slipping through the silk and mesh as she sank to her knees. Something inside of Betsy broke, unexpected tears rolling down her cheeks as she pulled out the lingerie.

She'd wanted things like this for so long, but a voice had always echoed in her head. You're not that kind of girl, and even if you were, no one wants to see you in something like that. It wasn't anyone's voice in particular, a resonant amalgamation of her mother, her aunts, her Sunday school teachers.

It was a voice that had kept her from doing so many things, and she'd erroneously labeled it her conscience, the moral compass by which she'd lived her life.

The tears dripping down her nose and landing on the front of her sweater weren't bitter, or even sad really. Betsy was awash with relief, knowing now that her own inner voice was allowed to be louder, to drown out the constant naysaying.

This thing in her hands didn't hurt anybody, it didn't say anything about whether or not she was a good person. It was pretty and indulgent and sure, a little risqué, but that didn't change who she was at her core. She felt so silly for denying herself.

Pulling herself up, Betsy set the box on top of her miniature chest of drawers, fingers pulling eagerly at the brass handle. The sheer bra and delicately lined bustier belonged tucked next to her soft cotton sports bras and wool stockings.

Her mind was already dashing ahead to what she would wear the next day, casting aside all the usual options. Knee length skirts and plaid sweaters just didn't seem appropriate for her assignment.

Finally, after most of her wardrobe had been tossed about her room, her fingers lit on something she didn't recognize. The material was soft, aside from the raised seams. She pulled it from the back of the drawer, shaking it out in front of her.

The dress was not hers. She would have remembered buying such a striking garment. Deep red like the little blood vials Morgan toted to and from phlebotomy each day, she stared at it in confusion. It was strange how perfect it seemed, how it filled every specification in her mind. Empire waist, knee length a-line skirt, cute little cap sleeves. It wasn't unlike something she might buy, in its style anyway, but the quality of the material was out of her price range surely, and she had never dared to wear such a rich color.

Maybe she had bought it, in a fit of online purchases late at night, a little too far into the single bottle of wine she bought once a month. She wanted the dress so badly. It had to be hers. No other explanation was acceptable.

She marveled at the lack of wrinkles. Pulling a hanger from the garment rack in the corner, she hung the dress up carefully, mentally pairing it with a shiny pair of patent leather heels Shauna had given her for Christmas years ago.

In spite of her initial hesitance, Betsy was looking forward to the next day, a swarm of butterflies flapping away in her stomach as she got ready for bed.

The city was still dark at six am, the only light in Betsy's room a yellow glow coming from a too close street lamp. She stared at her reflection in the full length mirror affixed to her bedroom door. It had been hard figuring out the loops and clasps of the lingerie in the dark, but she'd managed, slipping the straps over her shoulders in the cold dark.

Whatever giddy anticipation she'd been feeling before she went to bed had quickly dissipated with the sound of her alarm clock. She'd slunk over to the chest of drawers without turning on the light and put on the garment as quickly as possible.

Now, she stared at herself, hair a wild fluffy mess falling in the waves it had dried in after her shower, eyes hooded with sleep still. A little thrill of excitement chased through her, at the sight, her nipples clearly visible through the sheer material. A blush pinked her cheeks when her eyes dropped lower, her gaze drawn immediately to the dark triangle at the vee of her thighs.

She fingered the straps attached to the tops of her black stockings, the silky material against her pale skin like India ink drawn across white parchment. She felt strange looking at her reflection, a thrill rippling through her, a tingling sensation radiating out from her center to the tips of her fingers and the soles of her stocking clad feet.

There was something to this. She already felt a shift in the way she carried herself, her shoulders back, head held a little higher. Reaching out, she flipped on the overhead light, a pleased smile slowly forming.

An hour later she zipped up the deep red dress, reviewing her full look in the mirror over her bathroom sink. Her hair fell in smooth waves down past her shoulders, the vee neck just a little bit deeper than she usually wore, exposing the peach toned skin of her decolletage.

One of her roommates had an array of crystal bottles scattered over the bathroom counter, each one containing an alluring scent that Betsy was sure cost more than a week's pay. Glancing over her shoulder, she snatched up the closest one and drew the glass stopper across her collarbone. The aromatic scent of citrus and flowers wafted up to her nose, musky undernotes carrying a decidedly dark tone. Feeling brave, she dipped the stopper down between her breasts, shivering as the cool liquid traced across her skin.

Not for the first time, she wondered what hot kisses dropped across her sensitive skin would feel like. Would she taste bitter, the chemical compounds of perfume clinging to her exposed skin? Would the kisses be wet, lips soft? Would his teeth rake across her pulse points?

She opened her eyes, surprised to find they had drifted shut, an enticing image playing against the back of her eyelids. Soft dark hair under her fingers, a familiar head held close to her breast as lips plucked at her soft flesh. A hot dart of pleasure pulsed between her legs, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

Clearing her throat, she exited the bathroom, snatching her purse from her bedroom handle before ducking out into the hall. She had to get ahold of herself, or today was going to be supremely awkward.

As Betsy approached the subway, she felt eyes on her. It wasn't all that different from her usual morning commute. This time it wasn't the just usual street creeper, eyes following her in a lascivious manner, but rather the curious glances of well dressed women. She walked faster, the heels of her shiny black shoes clicking against the tile of the platform, tossing her hair confidently over one shoulder.

Today she didn't look for the most unobtrusive seat on the subway, didn't look anxiously for a sweet old lady to sit by. Instead, she walked to the middle of the car and curled her fingers around the cool metal of the pole, daring anyone to jostle her.

She positioned herself directly in the line of vision of a fellow commuter, a man in an expensive looking suit, hair parted on the side like some extra out of _Mad Men._ He had a newspaper in his free hand, reading it attentively as the subway careened along. Betsy ogled him, the tailored suit accentuating his wide shoulders, the nipped in waist.

He glanced up, eyes immediately finding her. Betsy fought the instinct to look shyly away, her nerves fluttering in her stomach as she bit her bottom lip. Her eyes cast downward, clearly giving him a once over before returning to his face. She was surprised to see such unfiltered interest in his gaze.

Her heart jumped into her throat as the subway shuddered to a halt. Darting to the closest doors, Betsy nearly ran from the car, finding her way to the street in record time.


	4. Chapter 4

Dr. Jeremy Reed had a lot on his mind. At night when he closed his eyes all he saw were spreadsheets and bureaucratic forms, numbers and lines of text scrolling endlessly as he tried to push them away. He knew things were getting bad when he began to fantasize about the "manageable" stress of Med-school.

It wasn't that running a medical practice was harder than pulling twenty-four hour shifts at the hospital while studying. It's just that there was no end to it, and he didn't find it rewarding at all. At least when he was a med student there were periods of calm to look forward to, pub nights and the occasional day to sleep in. They had been few and far between, sure, but at least they had existed.

He had never signed up for this mess though, never expected Marc Shulman to take a surprise early retirement. Even if he had known what the older doctor had been planning, he would never have expected all the responsibility to fall on his shoulders.

Of course, he should have known not to rely on Mindy, flighty as always, dashing off to Haiti, popping back again. But Danny shirking responsibility had been an irksome surprise. How many times had the short Italian man gone off on overly long monologues about manhood and 'being an adult'? Too many to count.

And yet, in those short three months Mindy had been away, if Danny wasn't with a patient, you could most assuredly have found him locked away in his office doing God knew what. It sure as hell wasn't his paperwork. Jeremy had taken to browbeating him to keep his patient files up to date.

And one would think Mindy's reappearance would have settled things somewhat, but the financial repercussions of her impromptu missionary trip were still reverberating through the practice. Jeremy would never admit it to her smug little face, but she'd always born the biggest patient load.

Her ceaseless perkiness and ability to chat anyone up gained her new patients on a weekly basis, but those women had not been pleased with Danny's closed mouthed demeanor or even Jeremy's own British charm, and the practice was still struggling to reestablish relationships with them.

So, with Peter leaving soon, Jeremy became determined to find a more "Mindy-ish" doctor to replace him, to capitalize on peppy brand of doctor/patient rapport she practiced. It seemed like a sound business plan, but it was impossible to judge from someone's résumé whether or not they had that _je ne sais quoi_ that made Mindy so integral to the practice, and Jeremy found himself stuck in a seemingly never ending loop of fruitless interviews.

At the moment he was staring at the latest batch of applications piled on his desk, the tension in his shoulders curling up, a hellish headache brewing in his frontal lobe... and it was only 7am.

He reached for the top one, inwardly groaning at the thought of reading yet another vaguely worded letter of recommendation. Before he could flip the cover page over, a shuffling noise caught his attention, drawing his eyes to the ajar door just in time to see a surprising flash of red dart by.

He glanced at his watch. The hands on the mother of pearl face indicated that it was far too early for patients to be trickling in or anyone else really, and Jeremy felt the faintest tendril of curiosity creep into his limbs, pushing away the tightly coiled tension.

He found himself standing quietly in reception, eyes darting across the room to look for clues. Nothing seemed to be out of place. The desks were cleared of paperwork, a cluster of flowers slightly wilted in a crystal vase sitting on one.

He turned to further explore the office, and that's when it hit him, the divinely sinful scent of a woman's perfume. It hung in the air tauntingly and drew him along inexorably as though he were hypnotized. Strolling across the industrial gray carpeting, Jeremy sniffed out the perfume's source, stopping to stare dazedly into the breakroom.

Someone was humming a jaunty little tune, bending forward as she rummaged happily through the fridge. Jeremy opened his mouth to call out to her, but he'd suddenly become mute, staring at the mystery woman's backside, seamed hosiery gently tracing the curves of her shapely legs.

His mouth went dry with desire, a seemingly forgotten predatory instinct kicking in as he crept quietly forward. God, how long had it been? If the images flashing through his mind were any indication, it had been too damn long.

There was a thump as the orange she'd pulled from the fridge dropped to the cold tile, and Jeremy thanked whatever gods were smiling down on him as she bent over to retrieve it. Her skirt, modest length though it was, rose perhaps a few inches too many, revealing tiny little silken bows where the garter snaps attached.

He let out an involuntary groan, instantly alerting the object of his voyeurism to his intrusive presence. She swiftly popped back up, whirling around to stare at him with big questioning eyes.

"Dr. Reed, are you ok?"

Betsy! He was horrified by the thoughts he'd been having about the receptionist… well, not about her, but about her… legs? That didn't seem any less creepy. He swallowed audibly, and tried his best to come up with a normal sounding response. "Fine… fine… just a little… indigestion."

Her mouth dropped open, forming a surprised little oh. Had her lips always looked like that? The bottom one, pleasantly full, settled into a suggestive pout when he didn't elaborate. He waited for her to look away, to bashfully study the fruit she was holding, to start babbling about her dad's remedies for heartburn.

But she didn't. Something briefly flashed behind her eyes before she turned away from him to close the refrigerator door. It shut with an odd sucking noise, the vacuum seal settling into place. Using her free hand, she smoothed out an invisible wrinkle on the front of her dress, her steps quick and sure as she approached him.

"Dr. Reed, perhaps you should eat a breakfast that's more nutritious than coffee and donuts." She nodded toward the half empty box on the table.

Her words landed on deaf ears, that now familiar perfume invading his sinuses and blocking out his other senses. He struggled not to breathe too deeply in an effort to memorize it.

She shrugged at his silence. Brushing past him, she sashayed out of the break room. Sashayed? Betsy Putch did _not_ sashay. She skipped sometimes, and tiptoed others, but she did not sashay. What the hell was happening. Here he was, standing dazed and confused, and more than a little turned on, and she just sashayed out of the room?

He blinked, coming back to his senses momentarily. This could not be about Betsy, this was… this was just him succumibng to stress. That had to be it. He was a lothario in desperate need of a playdate, having denied himself release for far too long. It had nothing to do with her.

He nodded to himself in agreement, letting out a long breath. Ambling back to his office, quite possibly trying too hard to look nonchalant, he scrolled through the long list of contacts in his phone. A few generic text messages sent out into the ether, and he began to feel somewhat normal again, only questioning his sanity occasionally when the faint whiff of jasmine floated through the air.

**A/N: I don't know why I'm enjoying writing this so much, i've literally never clicked on a Jetsy fic bc the pairing never held any interest for me, but the more I write this, the more I'm invested in it :O:O:O:O As always, your comments and reviews mean the world to me and I would love to know what you think.**


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